


Ficlets and Drabbles

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Blasphemy, Bloodplay, Bondage, Crack, Dom/sub, Face Squirrels, Fluff, Food Sex, Kneeling, M/M, Madeleine Era, Object Insertion, Outdoor Sex, Sharing a Bed, Shaving, zucchinisports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2015-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:35:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 7,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of ficlets and drabbles, so they don't get lost in the bowels of Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Penitence

**Penitence**

It was instinct that made him duck behind a bench, all thoughts of confession forgotten when Javert entered the church of Montreuil-sur-Mer, taller and more imposing than any avenging angel, a Michael drawn in darkest graphite against the whiteness of the church walls.

Instinct, too, made him listen, although his ears burned at first at the blasphemy of listening to another man's quiet plea for redemption. The sacrilege of it was forgotten later when he flushed with a different shame at the revelation of the inspector's darkest secrets. He had seen Javert condemn criminals with hardened glances devoid of mercy; himself, Javert condemned with a cruelty that bordered on rapture.

Valjean's hands gripped each other in the semblance of prayer. In truth, there was nothing sacred in the heat that rose in him when that voice so used to wielding the sharp blade of the law stuttered through wretched admissions, admitting thoughts of a man, dreams of a magistrate's uncommon strength, semen spilled in shame at fever dreams of depravities that would surely lead him to Hell.

Valjean did not listen to the priest's answer. He did not contemplate the sin of listening to another man's confession, apart from the penance he paid on his knees later, roughly working his prick until he faltered in his prayer. That night, he returned to the church to see Javert on his knees on the hard stone, and if Javert faltered in his own prayer for a moment, he pretended not to hear it.

When Javert came to his office again in the light of day, he was flushed and did not meet his eyes. For the first time, Valjean was not afraid to look. He pressed a rosary into his hand; Javert, overcome, knelt before him, the awareness of his sin heavy between them. He rested his hands on Javert's head then, infinitely gentle, and Javert, penitent, prayed with his mouth, all the more earnest for the wordlessness of his plea.


	2. Jellybeans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I blame Open Office.](http://esteliel.tumblr.com/post/82591547071/really-open-office-jellybeans)

**Jellybeans**

Javert froze when Valjean’s arms wrapped around him. Cuddling. Right. That was what people usually did, after… He grimaced a little at the sticky, cooling fluids between their bodies. This was quite disgusting. How strange that a moment ago, it had seemed like such a good idea.

Valjean smiled at him. His lips were very red. Javert supposed that this was one of those moments when people kissed, or spoke fanciful words of love. Valjean’s smile widened, and Javert hastily opened his mouth before his ignorance became too apparent. “That was…” He scrambled for words. “Nice,” he said, then, feeling the inadequacy of that expression a moment too late, added, “my jellybean.” He wanted to grimace at himself, though the look he gave Valjean was belligerent, daring him to laugh.

At breakfast the next morning, Cosette pressed his hand with a wide smile. “Your visit does papa good, Monsieur. I have not heard him laugh so in years! You must remember to share whatever book you were reading together!”

Valjean laughed again. Javert buried his humiliation behind a journal. The sound of Valjean’s laughter was strangely pleasing indeed. Maybe, it might even be worth the price of such humiliation.


	3. Rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 sentence ficlet for Miss M's prompt "rain"

The garden is very green and damp, as damp as the man standing beneath an old tree with smudges of dirt on the still-strong arms, lost in silent contemplation as the rain keeps falling with a gentle relentlessness. Javert imagines leading him inside, trying and failing to find that same gentleness as he strips those wet clothes from his body, fails to imagine how he would wrap a blanket around him, sit him down by a fire, hold those hands in his until they flush with warmth and life.

The rain keeps falling steadily; the air smells green and damp and like dark soil; Javert feels the water soak through his greatcoat, and when it runs beneath his collar, he shudders, suddenly impatient with himself – his hands are not the hands of a gardener; his hands have never saved a life; there is no place for him here in this place of growing things, not now, not ever, and maybe – maybe he will return tomorrow, just to see for himself that everything is still well here in the Rue Plumet, now that Cosette is gone.


	4. Scrambled Eggs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 sentence ficlet for AeonDelirium's prompt: "Maybe something fluffy, for a change? :P Valjean hadn't expected Javert to stick around for breakfast, but it turns out he makes some excellent scrambled eggs."

When he opens his eyes, the bed is empty, with no traces left of Javert save for a lonely hair gleaming auburn in the sunlight; as he reaches out a shaking hand to touch the creases of the pillow where certainly his head must have rested moments ago (for it was no dream, it could not have been a dream, no dream could have left him with memories that even now make him blush, with memories of _taste_ , of the heat of naked skin, the strength of another body moving against his) there is a sound from the kitchen that sounds like somebody dropped a pan.

He is not certain what emotions are visible on his face when he finally finds Javert; he is clad in nothing but his shirt still while Javert is impeccably dressed once more, but whatever it is Javert sees makes him flush, and smile a little, and then quickly turn back towards the stove as if he was as unsettled as Valjean – “I hope you are hungry,” he says to break the silence, and Valjean nods, and then flushes too and hurries back towards the bedroom. When he returns, this time in trousers and a clean shirt and a waistcoat he hesitated over for too long, there are creases of worry around Javert’s eyes, but when he sits down at the table – laid with plates, and sliced bread and butter, and cups of steaming coffee, is this truly the work of _Javert_? – Javert tries the fit of another uncertain smile as he fills Valjean’s plate with scrambled eggs, and Valjean is astonished when suddenly, that smile seems as natural as the sight of Javert in his kitchen.


	5. Death Cults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For culumacilinte's prompt: "Soooo if you're looking to take prompts for little things, have a few! Tolkienverse: Haleth/ANY LADY (but esp Galadriel, with simmering tension from Elvish vs. Mannish politics and conflict). Or weird bloodplay sex with the death cults of Numenor. Orrr for Les Mis, something with undercover Javert having to play the part of a revolutionary."
> 
> I somehow ended up mixing the prompts, so, here’s 3 sentences of Javert infiltrating death cults.

Infiltrating the cult had been easy, up until the ninny bound naked to the altar raised his head to grin at him, and they recognized each other at the same time: Montparnasse paling, his foolish smile faltering as he started to struggle against the bonds as he should have all along; Javert in turn grimacing, feeling a strange satisfaction that the laws of the world still worked as they always had, that filth would end up with filth, that someone like Montparnasse, whom he suspected to be the perpetrator of more than a dozen unresolved crimes, would end up like this, victim of an unnatural ritual.

He pressed the knife to still unblemished skin to keep up appearances; the smile returned even as blood welled up, even as proof of the fool’s unnatural desires pressed against him, and with that, impatience at this farce returned as well – in the end, the only thing that made the horrible charade worth it was the sudden, painful realization in those dark eyes when he raised the knife to his throat. “You do realize they expect me to kill you,” he said, and then gritted his teeth when Montparnasse began to struggle against him in truth in a way most undignified and tormenting, so that he was absurdly grateful for the hooded robe that concealed his body when finally, the doors burst open and the police filled the small underground temple.


	6. Zucchinisports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [...nothing of this is my fault.](http://vejiicakes.tumblr.com/post/89090518247/javert-never-understood-why-valjean-always-got-so) I am an innocent. Or at least I wasn't the one who started the bb zucchini talk. >_>

There was mud on Valjean's fingers when he handed him the basket of vegetables; there is oil on Javert's fingers now as his hand glides firmly along the smooth sides of the zucchini, grown ripe and full with sunlight and the care of Valjean's tender hands. Javert turns his face into the pillow when he slowly forces it inside, imagining himself held, spread open, filled by something even larger, fuller, and his breath escapes in something that is almost a moan as he shudders.

Now that the zucchini is almost fully inside him, the sensation is sweet; he draws another moan from himself as he pulls it half out, then slides it back inside, shivering around it, open and vulnerable; and he thinks of Valjean in his garden once more, the hair on his bare arms, his muscles gleaming with sweat in the light of the sun; he thinks of those calloused fingers cradling the vegetable with such tenderness, imagines their roughness within him as the oil-slick zucchini easily slides even deeper, and the words he pants into the pillow now are a plea, and the fullness within him is something hot and too large.

He does not blush, even though he is dishonest for the first time when they meet once more the next day – yet is it truly dishonesty when the zucchini _has_ pleased him? Nevertheless, he cannot quite meet Valjean's eyes when he accepts another basket of vegetables. It seems to him that the zucchinis have grown even larger from the additional day's heat; the carrots Valjean has selected are straight and thick; he keeps his eyes on them as he mumbles words of gratitude. When he turns to take his leave, he catches a hint of Valjean's smile; he cannot read him, he thinks, he never could. When Valjean adds a cucumber, his smile too kind, he finally flushes after all.


	7. Montparnasse-Bienvenüe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written during the 5 minute word war in Paris for the prompt "Montparnasse-Bienvenüe"

Montparnasse gave the old man who opened the door a charming smile. His face was smudged with dirt in just the right places to give him an air of youthful loveliness threatened by the misery of starvation; his coat was equally smudged, although that, as he had declared with particular annoyance to a window he had passed earlier, had not been his intention.

Nevertheless, it served him well, as the old fool of a priest who opened the door and bid him inside and fed him dinner and wine and a sermon that threatened to make him fall asleep right there at the table invited him to spend the night in a bed in an alcove.

When the church bells rang midnight, Montparnasse stole into the priest’s bedroom. The old man opened his eyes just when he bent over him with his silver in his hands. He did not seem surprised — but Montparnasse, who knew well how these situations went, put on another winsome smile and stopped any scream for help by slipping beneath the covers instead.


	8. The Face Squirrel Dealer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Paris word war drabble for the prompt "face squirrels"

Javert gritted his teeth as he watched a man hovering in a corner near the Jardin des Plantes clad in a suspiciously padded greatcoat.

“I have the finest fur from all over France,” the man said when he came closer, and then, once he had looked around to ensure that they were unobserved, opened his coat. Javert nearly flinched back at such great disregard of the law and the order of society. There, hidden beneath the greatcoat, the man’s treasure was revealed: squirrels peeking curiously at him from various little pockets sewn into the coat’s lining.

“You seem to me a man of taste; here, this pair, Monsieur, from the royal line of Versailles! See how their tails would frame your face! How charmed a young lady would be by such a sight, how impressed any gentleman!”

Javert scowled, although he could not help but feel a slight touch of disappointment that he had no whiskers of his own to add to the ferocity of his expression.

“I am Javert, inspector of the police. Show me the papers of your squirrels, or accompany me to the station house now.”


	9. The Rigidity of the Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Javert/Chabouillet/Javert’s massive heavy truncheon"

His new truncheon is a beautiful piece of craftsmanship: smooth, sturdy and whittled to perfection, it gleams black in the light as M. Chabouillet turns it for a long moment beneath those discerning eyes that always make Javert feel a certain, hollow hunger for approval from this man who has given patronage when not many others would.  
  
The wooden truncheon looks large and fearsome as his superior slicks oil over it, his hand sliding up and down in a precise motion that makes something in Javert’s stomach clench, and when M. Chabouillet finally looks at him, Javert does not even need to hear the word to spread himself out on the man’s desk, his trousers disgracefully tangled around his knees, his shirttails preserving his modesty until they are lifted out of the way and he spreads himself for M. Chabouillet, his face hot with something he hopes will be taken for shame. When the wood slides inside, his hole aching around the unexpected, unyielding thickness of the implement, a soft groan breaks free and his muscles tense; M. Chabouillet’s hand on his thigh is strangely gentle, although the wood is not as it enters and spreads him with a terrifying, massive thickness; and when it continues to explore him until he has learned the weight and the shape and the harsh, merciless rigidity of the law in this most intimate way, every hoarse moan that escapes him is an acknowledgment of the great gift his patron has made him.


	10. Shaving

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "JVJ, straight razor shaving"

Javert is breathing evenly; not a single tremor betrays what feelings are lodged in his chest as Valjean’s hand presses the razor to his skin and then swipes upwards, lifting both foam and stubble from his throat in an even motion that denies the truth of what they both know: that nothing but the thin fabric of skin parts life from death here, that nothing but Valjean’s steady hand and Javert’s stillness keeps his hot, sluggish blood from spilling free. Valjean is focused on his work; they do not talk; the razor comes out every day since Valjean fished him from the river, and Javert, who still is not certain whether he even wants this life the man has forced on him, can in turn not bring himself to betray Valjean’s trust, for it is not he who trusts Valjean with the razor here – it is Valjean who trusts him not to move.  
  
Javert breathes evenly through all of it, watching Valjean from half-closed eyes as the gleaming razor is pressed to his throat once more and glides easily over his skin; just as easily, Javert’s thumb glides over the aching heat that has gathered between his legs, and although Valjean can see where Javert’s hand rests, and can see the slow motion of his hand in time to Valjean’s swipes of the razor, Valjean never stops the slow, careful work of his hands until all foam and all stubble is gone at last, and the razor is lifted, and Javert’s lips part in tormented relief for a silent moan as his body shudders and the wetness of his spend soaks hot and damp into his nightshirt.


	11. Prayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Valvert dom/sub with Javert as dom"

Valjean used to begin the morning in prayer, and end it thus as well; the pain of hard wood beneath his knees is familiar and welcome, and in time will bring the clarity of meditation, those few, precious glimpses of peace – but it is not morning now but noon, and the floor he kneels on is not that of his bedroom, but that of Javert’s small chamber. Javert has pulled off Valjean’s waistcoat, and now his hands open the buttons of his shirt while Valjean fails to suppress the shudders that run through his tired, overstimulated body; almost he has been driven far enough to beg, but it is not enough yet, he cannot yet force himself to yield and ask for mercy, even though he has knelt for an hour, fighting for the tranquility of meditation that escapes him today – for when he kneels here, on Javert’s floor, he does so with a piece of whittled wood the man’s large hands have slipped inside him earlier, heavy and large and pressing just _there_ as he tries to escape from the need within him into the peace of prayer.

Today, once more, he has won that trial: his body may tremble, and his breath escape in little sobs as Javert’s fingers brush his skin, but he has not given in to his body’s desires, choosing instead the purity of prayer to escape from the pain of his body’s needs… until Javert’s fingers brush a nipple, and then brush it again, and then he feels _nails_ and bucks into his touch with a little cry, his eyes wide open with shock as his pleasure leaves him in wet, tormenting pulses, and Javert laughs softly against his mouth, for he knows what they both know: that now Valjean will have to return another morning, to test himself again.


	12. Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Valjean/Javert, outdoors sex "

There is loam clinging to Valjean’s strong arms, and a leaf stuck in his hair; his shirtsleeves have been rolled up, revealing muscles and sun-warmed skin and the strangely smooth paths of scars, and Javert, half despairing at his own wantonness, tells himself that this must be blamed on the spring and the sunshine as he opens Valjean’s trousers with trembling fingers, even though they have never been disturbed here in the garden behind the house.  
  
Valjean makes a sound – it is protest, Javert thinks, and prepares to silence him with a kiss, for it is entirely unfair to make him watch Valjean’s strong body relentlessly laboring in the sun all morning – but all Valjean says is a soft, hushed, “Let me,” and “Here, please,” and then, somehow, they are in the grass, and Valjean is heavy and warm against him, and Javert aches to spread his legs and feel Valjean fill the hollow need within him. Instead, they press close, here where the high grass hides them; Javert breathes in the scent of crushed flowers and earth and the shocked little sound of pleasure Valjean makes when he ruts against him, the sun warm on his back and the song of the birds so loud that it is almost enough to drown out his own panting; and when Valjean closes his eyes and gasps and spills himself hot and wet against his prick, he pushes a hand into his hair to brush away that solitary leaf; he watches the way Valjean’s eyes crease, thin skin revealing lines he wants to trace with his fingers until he has learned them as well as the labyrinthine map of Paris’ streets; and then he tenses and surrenders with a moan, allowing Valjean to kiss the sound from his lips as his own seed joins Valjean’s and drips into the fertile earth of this place that he thinks might become home for both of them.


	13. Raindrops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "jvj, bedsharing"

They are dripping with rain when they crowd into Javert’s small chamber, and Javert is struck by the way Valjean laughs – _laughs!_ – at the way drops of water keep dripping down from Javert’s nose, until Javert is forced to kiss him to silence that laughter, all the while stripping wet, cold clothes from him with growing impatience; and although he knows what he wants to say ( _Stay the night, Valjean, your clothes will not dry in time even by the fire_ , or maybe, _I worry about you, Valjean, please take the bed_ , and then of course Valjean, too good for this world and too good for _him_ , would argue and protest until at last they would decide to share his small bed for the first time) it does not even take words for them to end up beneath his blanket together.  
  
His bed is narrow, but the blanket is heavy and warm, and beneath it, their cold skin quickly warms as they are forced to rest in each other’s arms, Valjean’s shoulders too broad, Javert’s body too lanky for that position to be comfortable. When Valjean relaxes against him, his hair still damp against his cheek, Javert exhales a quiet, stuttering sigh of relief; he resolves to keep his hands away all through the night if he has to, if Valjean is exhausted and would rather sleep – but then it is Valjean’s mouth that is hot and questioning at his throat and turns Javert’s sigh into a moan; Javert’s hands seek out Valjean’s prick with an eagerness he cannot feel shame for, and by the time Valjean thrusts into his hand with overwhelmed need, the cold is gone from his bones, and he thinks they will be comfortable enough this night.


	14. Indulgence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "Valjean worshiping Javert's very big cock"

Javert is asleep, naked and exhausted; one arm is resting on his chest that rises and falls while his head leans awkwardly against the backrest. His skin is damp with sweat from the earlier exertion of their lovemaking, and Valjean thinks that he should leave him to his nap even as he bends his head to press a gentle kiss to where a wild trail of graying hair leads to the generously proportioned prick that even softened never fails to draw his eyes.

Javert sleeps; his cock stirs from sleep when Valjean cannot quite keep from nuzzling his cheek against it, trailing one hand lightly over the coarse hair that covers Javert's thigh while his lips part and he breathes warm, adoring air against him. Warmth spreads through him as well when Javert mutters something in his sleep, shifting as he tries to get comfortable while Valjean slowly, patiently encourages him to full hardness with gentle touches. Certainly it cannot be selfishness to desire to see Javert aroused, he tells himself, not when his aim is to give Javert pleasure – but still he feels a shiver of guilt as he slides his mouth over him at last with gentle reverence.

By the time Javert wakes, he is hard and stretching Valjean's mouth beyond comfort, and a secret thrill runs through Valjean at the way Javert's hand grasps his hair, at the way those hips rise desperately, thrusting into his mouth with the abandon Javert never allows himself when awake. 

Fingers clench against his scalp; Javert is so large and slides in so deep that Valjean cannot breathe, and the dizzy heat within him spreads until his entire world is reduced to hot bursts of sensation that make him tremble with voiceless moans as all he can do is _feel_ and taste, and then swallow again and again while Javert arches against him and spills himself in endless spurts. 

When the wet length slides from Valjean's mouth as last, slick and sticky with Javert's spend and his spit, he has to press the heel of his hand to the base of his prick to stave off his own release, panting for air as his body thrums with his own need. Still it is not enough to sate whatever hungers inside him, and so he licks carefully at the damp, softening length instead until Javert's hands come to rest on his head once more to stroke his hair with trembling fingers. At last Javert's hand cups his cheek, and he turns his head and catches those fingers to suck them into his mouth. Javert makes a little noise, but does not pull away, and Valjean relaxes once more, his head pillowed on Javert's thigh, the ache of his own need sweet and sharp between his legs, and tongues carefully at the long fingers that press against his tongue with quiet indulgence.


	15. Valjean/Gisquet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Valjean/Gisquet smut with Valjean submitting to the Lawr?"

Valjean stands straight in his new uniform as Colonel Gisquet inspects him from behind his desk; Valjean is calm, although within his chest, his heart constricts with fear, for he can think of no reason why he has been called into the Colonel’s office save that somehow, they must have found out that his papers are faked – will he be able to run, he wonders in quiet despair, his gaze daring to linger on the window for a moment before a barely visible motion catches his eye and he looks at M. Gisquet once more, whose hand seems to move slightly there in his lap.

For a moment, Valjean cannot think; he is shocked, he does not know how to deal with such a sight – M. Gisquet in turn breathes deeply and then nods at him, ordering him to take off his shirt so that he can inspect him for fitness, although Valjean still watches that slight motion from the corner of his eye and knows that M. Gisquet wants to look at him for quite a different purpose.

To take off his coat and shirt would be to reveal his scars, and Valjean cannot do that; his heart hammers in his chest; again his eyes return to the window, which leads into the courtyard with a hundred men in the uniforms of the National Guard – _No way out_ , he thinks, and then moves to the Colonel’s side, frightened and determined as he bends forward over his desk: “M. Gisquet,” he says, his voice very nearly calm, “in fact I would appreciate your help; these trousers do not quite fit – perhaps you could assist me in removing them?”


	16. Javert/Enjolras

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Javert/Enjolras at the barricade, angry kissing and sex, but mutually consensual"

The man had come to give him water – and Javert, ablaze with the quiet dignity of one suffering in righteousness, had deliberated for a long moment before he deigned to bend his head and drank from the cup, cool water running down his parched throat so that for a moment, all indignity was forgotten as relief flooded through him.

When he raised his head, water dripped from his lips, droplets running down his chin; a heartbeat passed, then that marble-faced insurgent pressed his fingers to his skin to wipe away the cold water, and where he touched, heat bloomed instead, rising and rising until Javert could not breathe, and, as he gasped for air, suddenly found his mouth covered with the lips of that leader of the insurgency, who breathed against him for one long moment of hesitation – and then that heat-storm broke free, and all thought was gone, and Javert found himself surging against his bonds even as he surged against the man, biting down on soft lips to bruise and mark while his captive body rubbed against the man’s hard, lean thigh.

Certainly it was not dereliction of duty, Javert thought dimly long moments later, for he was already a prisoner; certainly a moment of madness might be excused in a man who was already staring into the face of death – and then that fine, pale face of death flushed with passion, and those lips softened against his as they released a breathless groan, the wetness of the man’s release spreading between them even as Javert moaned an answering sound of despair into his mouth while between his legs, his cock throbbed with an heretofore unknown, tender agony.


	17. “I’m sorry” kiss

Javert waited for a long time in front of the door of Valjean’s apartment in the Rue de l’Homme-Armé. At last, it was the thought that the portress would catch him staring at the door that made him raise his hand and knock. He waited with a sinking feeling for the door to open; when it did, and Valjean looked out at him, his expression quickly changing from fear to surprise to relief, Javert felt a new wave of guilt spread through him. It had been horrible of him to simply leave, after Valjean had nursed him back to health. He should have given Valjean an explanation, instead of running away without even a letter.

He groped for words; his eyes came to rest on Valjean’s throat, bared to his view, and what words he had carefully prepared vanished from his mind when he watched the way Valjean’s throat moved with every breath he took.

Javert made an anguished sound. He tried to raise his eyes, but then, when his gaze came to rest on Valjean’s mouth instead, he found he could not resist that vision either. Some force drew him forward, and when his lips brushed Valjean’s, a tremor ran through him, and he remembered that first kiss, before he had run. How improbable that he, Javert, should have done such a thing. How utterly impossible.

But Valjean’s breath was sweet against his lips, and he simply stood there, silent and still, as if not to scare him away. Javert, who had lost all of those carefully prepared words, sought to speak with his lips instead, pressing them to Valjean’s while he rested his hands against Valjean’s chest with the same careful hesitation. It was sweet; God help him, it was just as sweet as that first time – and this time, he would not run. This time he would have the courage to face this frightening need for Valjean’s love.

They were still standing in the doorway. It was madness – any moment chance might lead the portress up the stairs. But Valjean’s lips were soft and warm, and Javert felt that all tension had gone out of him, and so he was content to remain like this, learning once more that thrill of the warmth and softness of Valjean’s lips moving against his own, and the way his breathing changed, even though the kiss was a chaste, lingering affair. When Javert drew back at last, he could see in Valjean’s eyes that Valjean knew it for the apology it was –  and then Valjean kissed him again, and Javert tasted his forgiveness with relief.


	18. Last kiss & Returned from the dead kiss

When he drew Javert from the Seine, it was already too late. Javert lay still and silent in his arms, cold water dripping from that face that had snarled at him once, and then had for the first time turned into something almost soft at the barricade when despair and danger had given them one stolen moment of - _something_ that had at least not been hate. But there was no snarl now, no frown, no silent judgment of the manifold sins of Jean Valjean. Instead, Javert’s face was smooth in death, and Valjean bent over him in silent anguish. He could not even say why it hurt. That moment at the barricade had meant nothing. Captivity had overwhelmed Javert to allow a moment of confused softness, where they had exchanged the slashing of the knife that Javert had expected for the touch of unskilled hands and the despairing, hungry press of lips.

Now, once more, Valjean pressed his lips to Javert’s skin. He lingered there, his mouth at his brow, and as Javert was cold and wet, he supposed it did not matter that now his own silent tears dripped down his face. A sob caught in his chest. Valjean smoothed a trembling, aching thumb along the cold cheek, felt the roughness of Javert’s whiskers, sobbed against his skin at last as the grief inside him grew into something unexpected large and heavy, a stone stuck in his throat so that he could not breathe, could only choke on it in silent despair — and then his hand slid further down, curved around Javert’s neck, and he felt it: the sluggish, reluctant beat of a pulse.

Valjean froze with disbelief. For long moments he waited, fingers trembling against Javert’s skin — it could not be, he thought, he was dreaming, Javert was dead, had died a horrible, lonely death and had left him behind with his guilt and grief — and then Javert coughed weakly, his chest shuddering as his lungs tried to expel the water, and Valjean stopped thinking.

Instead, he helped Javert turn over and held him tightly in his arms as Javert coughed and shivered, and then, even before he could strip off his own coat to wrap it around Javert’s shaking shoulders, he pressed his lips to his once more, kissed him, open-mouthed, greedy for that hitching breath that was life even as his own tears dropped onto Javert’s cheeks, his fingers stroking the face that was now wet from the Seine and his own tears. “You live,” he murmured against Javert’s lips, “you live, oh, thank God, thank God, you live!” until Javert had to push him away with weak arms to cough up more water; and afterward, when they kissed again, he thought they were both crying, but there was too much water to tell.


	19. Kiss on the back

To rest on his stomach, naked in the light of the evening sun, takes no real trust, for his skin has come to know Javert, has been touched and blessed, and the weight of Javert on his back and the slow, sweet slide of Javert’s eager prick against him, and then inside him, wakes no memories now but those of shared bliss. He knows Javert just as intimately, has watched him fall apart countless times until all Javert can voice are hoarse pleas for more as Valjean fills him with careful, harsh thrusts that shatter Javert with pleasure.

There are no secrets between them any more. He knows Javert’s thoughts; in these moments, he has touched Javert’s soul, and loves that soul even when Javert cannot. So when Javert slides inside him – and he loves how Javert is always a little too eager, how his hands tremble against his body and his voice is hoarse with need, as if he still cannot believe that Valjean is his as Javert is Valjean’s – Valjean moans with nothing but pleasure, and feels nothing but love at the way Javert’s hips stutter forward just a little too fast, although he can feel Javert’s muscles tense with the desire to control himself.

It is only later, when they have settled into the rhythm, when Javert’s eagerness for this has given way to slow, deep thrusts that make Valjean moan softly and twist his hands into the sheets with the helpless need to draw this out as long as he can, that Javert bends down, and breathes hot air against the scars that line his back.

Valjean is shaking – every time, it is nearly overwhelming, that need to run, or to cry out and plead _No_ , though he cannot even say what it is he cannot bear. He is enveloped in slow, warm pleasure; every motion of Javert is designed to pleasure him as deeply and for as long as Valjean wishes, and yet that moment when Javert’s mouth hovers over his back, when Valjean feels his breath between his shoulderblades, turns the pleasure to tension, and Valjean freezes. His stomach twists, his heart constricts – and then Javert’s lips touch his skin in a gentle kiss, pressing adoration, love and worship to the ugly, gnarled scars, and Valjean’s breath escapes in a sob.

Javert keeps moving slowly, easily, and the pleasure that builds inside Valjean is sweet and seductive – but even so, it takes long minutes until Valjean can relax, and he is covered in sweat as he twists beneath Javert with little moans, pressing his damp face into a pillow while he arches and writhes and pushes back for more, even though Javert’s thrusts are hard and deep now. Through it all, Javert’s lips remain on his skin, hot enough to brand, soft enough to soothe, that tongue that speaks his name with worship tasting the sweat on his back now until the fear is gone and he is nothing but despairing need. And then it is too much and he looses himself in shuddering waves of pleasure that leech all thought and fear out of him, and when he regains the ability to think, tired and pleased and still vaguely hungry for Javert, he finds those large hands hesitant and worshipful against his back.

Javert is still hard inside him. It is pleasant – perhaps even more so because he is so well-sated and limp with contentment. Valjean breathes calm moans as he concentrates on how those fingers tremble with such careful adoration against his scars, and Javert gives him long, quiet moments of this before he finally allows himself to take his own pleasure from Valjean’s well-pleased body.


	20. Jealous kiss, Chabouillet/Javert

“It has been long years, Javert,” Chabouillet says, and Javert watches as his patron gets up and slowly walks around his desk. Javert awkwardly grips the folder in his hand – is he supposed to stand? Is the interview over?

Chabouillet comes to stand next to him. His hand rests on Javert’s shoulder, who does not know what to do and eyes the desk before him in mute confusion.

“About your letters, and that business with the mayor—”

And now, Javert thinks with sudden understand, will come the admonishment. Well, it is only right; Valjean has escaped once more, and he, Javert, deserves to be held responsible for it.

“I hope you will cease that unhealthy obsession with that man now,” Chabouillet says, and his voice is low and dark with some strange emotion Javert cannot place.

Is it rage, he wonders; does Chabouillet think he neglected his duties to chase after Valjean—

But then Chabouillet’s hand is in his hair, gripping it roughly so that Javert’s lips part and a surprised gasp escapes, and his head is pulled back. His eyes widen when Chabouillet leans down to kiss him with a focused aggression that leaves Javert wide-eyed and shocked. Chabouillet’s tongue slides into his mouth, and he moans around it instinctively, allowing it to happen, for he owes this man everything, even though this is a strange thing. His lips feel hot and tingle, and his tongue feels heavy and useless as Chabouillet’s tongue slides against his so that he can taste his patron, hot and foreign in his mouth. A choked little whimper forms deep in his throat as heat pools and throbs between his legs; but he does not dare to touch, even though he is almost wishing now that Chabouillet will see: to chide him for it, or maybe touch him there, too.

When he is released at last, his lips throb with that same pulse. He has to lick Chabouillet’s taste from them and swallow several times, and then dazedly promises that he will chase after rumors no more.


	21. Awkward kiss

He has not kissed anyone, ever. He wonders if that is a thing he should say. If that is something Valjean expects of him. Does Valjean expect him to know these things?

He has thought about kissing him often. It started innocently: the brush of a hand against his, light as the touch of wings, as they sat together on a bench in the Luxembourg.

He keeps thinking of it later. When Valjean smiles at him, it fills him with a strange lightness, and he wonders how it would feel to have those lips curve against his skin, to trace them and learn the shape of happiness.

Half a year passes. It is terrible. It is inescapable. He thinks of kissing him every evening when they part. He looks at Valjean’s lips. He hesitates, his heart beating hard and fast in his chest - and then he freezes, and murmurs some idiotic word of parting, and turns to leave, and berates himself for his foolishness and cowardice all the way back to his rooms.

One evening, he does not turn. He stays frozen, staring at those lips, telling himself that the lightest touch would be enough to know, and, that once he knows, this terrible craving will be quenched, and he can return to enjoy Valjean’s company as he should.

Valjean does not move. Neither does Javert. In the silence between them, the panicked beating of his heart is strong enough that he thinks Valjean must be able to see the way it rocks his body with that terrible urgency it drives through his blood.

He licks his lips, despairs.

No, no, he cannot do this. He will turn and leave, and Valjean will never know this need that dwells in his chest, this unholy curiosity — and even while he tells himself this, he watches himself lean forward with wide, panicked eyes, Valjean’s mouth coming closer, and then their lips brush, and he shudders back, breathing heavily. Valjean still has not moved, and Javert squeezes his eyes shut in mortification — _do it right_ , he tells himself, _maybe you’ll never see him again, do it right this one time_ — and he leans in and presses his lips to Valjean. This time it is a little too rough, and Valjean’s nose is in the way, and when he tries to move his head into a better position, he thinks for a moment that it works — until Valjean makes a sputtering sound and flinches back, rubbing his nose where Javert’s whiskers have tickled him.

Javert makes a humiliated sound. He is still frozen. He thinks that if he could move, he would turn and go away and never return, for certainly someone who cannot do such a simple thing does not deserve to be humored by a man such as Valjean — and then Valjean laughs softly and gives him a disbelieving look, even as he touches his own lips with careful fingers.

"Good night, Javert," Valjean then says, just as if nothing had happened at all. "And let us try this again tomorrow, if you want."


	22. Kiss on the nose

Javert looks up at him in quiet mortification.

“You did not think I would catch you,” Valjean says, and Javert exhales tiredly and lowers his hand that holds the knife.

“No excuses?” Valjean asks after a moment when Javert does not speak, and at last Javert opens his mouth.

“It’s just…”

“Yes?” Valjean asks when Javert falters.

“You know what it is,” Javert says with a hint of stubborn belligerence at last. “Of course you know, or you wouldn’t have sneaked up at me to catch me in the act.”

Valjean’s lips twitch when Javert places a wooden elephant on the floor with a sound he would call a huff if it came from any other person.

“You know you do not need to hide—”

“No, no, no. Stop right there, Valjean; we are not talking about this, and we will not talk about it in the future. That’s all there is to this. You—”

Valjean’s smile widens. “Are you afraid I will call you a good man? A thoughtful man? A kind man?” He watches with something that is nearly glee as Javert’s face twists into a grimace of pain at the words of praise.

“You will not mention this to—”

Valjean leans down and deliberately presses a kiss to Javert’s nose. Javert makes another quiet, mortified sound.

“You will tell Cosette, won’t you,” Javert says in defeat, and now Valjean allows himself the soft laughter that has been threatening to escape all this time.

“She’s seen right through you, Javert. You have no reputation left to lose.”

“Yes, well,” Javert mutters and takes hold of the elephant again to continue his whittling, although his cheeks are flushed, “as long as she keeps the child away from me.”


	23. French kiss

They have been out walking, and it is raining. Valjean has been quiet for a while. Javert wonders whether there is something he could say – Cosette and Pontmercy have just announced their plans to spend a few weeks in the country, and although Valjean had made appropriate, happy sounds at the enthusiasm in Cosette’s voice, Javert now thinks of how Valjean never misses a single day in his walks to the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire to spend an hour listening to Cosette’s talk of her day.

Those moments fill him with a happiness Javert cannot give, and he has long learned not to feel jealous or inadequate in the face of such an overwhelming love. Instead, there is enough to feel grateful for: before those walks, Valjean will have tea with him, and after those walks, return to share the quiet space of rooms they are slowly learning to fill with conversation spoken with the press of fingers instead of words.

So Javert thinks he understands the emptiness that has just swallowed a part of Valjean’s day, and he understands as well that this is an absence he cannot fill, no matter how hard he tries.

They pass a doorway that offers shelter from the rain. Even though both of them have weathered worse, a sudden urge makes him reach out and grab Valjean’s hand to pull him into the doorway with careful insistence. It is reassuring to see only surprise on Valjean’s face; more reassuring still to see no fear, but only embarrassed disbelief when he pushes him against the doorway and leans in to kiss him right there.

Valjean’s shoulders are wet beneath his hands, and so is the hair that now clings to his cheek. Valjean’s lips are warm, and he slides his tongue into Valjean’s mouth, shivering at the heat and the way Valjean first gasps and then breathes a little moan when their tongues meet, hot and wet and utterly inappropriate for such a public space. Vaguely, he thinks that he should care about such a thing. But then Valjean’s lips move against his, and Valjean’s tongue, hesitant at first, curls tentatively against his own while another soft sound of want vibrates in Valjean’s throat, and Javert thinks that perhaps, he can learn to make all other hours of the day count more, while she is gone.


End file.
